The Sixteenth Floor
by probiewan
Summary: Neal and Peter are caught in an explosion while following a lead. Plenty of whumpage for both! No slash, but feel free to imagine this as pre-slash if it makes you happy. This is my first fic, so please r&r!
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own or profit from the White Collar characters - I just love the show. **

**I hope you enjoy my first fanfic. Comments are appreciated!**

****************

No sound. Just the racing of his own heart and the blood pumping in his head. The thick air made it difficult to breathe, and Peter coughed violently, trying to catch a breath. Without realizing it, the silence had transformed into a piercing ringing, pounding through his already sore head. He couldn't see anything in the blackness and wondered briefly, wildly, if he was blind. Or worse, dead.

Peter felt, rather than heard, movement beside him. He shook his head, trying to clear the ringing, but it wouldn't stop. He tried his voice.

"Neal?" he called out, into the darkness. The sound was like an echo, traveling underwater. He could feel the vibrations of his own voice, but he could barely hear it. The explosion must've caused what he hoped was temporary hearing loss, but he couldn't worry about that now. He knew that he wasn't dead, and now he had to worry about Neal. If Neal had caused that movement beside him, then he was still alive.

"Neal?" he called again, this time louder, or what he hoped was louder. His throat was dry and choked with the dust that now filled the air. Shapes were starting to take form as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He hoped that Neal could hear him. He tried to sit up but fell back again with a cry as the pain shot through his body. Colors burst across his field of vision, and his mind clouded with agony as everything went black again.

****************

A sound. A small, distant sound. He realized he was dreaming of Elizabeth. Was he at home, sleeping in bed? Was she calling to him? He desperately wanted to answer her, to roll over and feel her warm body next to his.

But Neal was here too. He could feel his presence, or the memory of it, nagging at the back of his mind. He sensed that he was forgetting to do something important, that he desperately needed to remember this vital task. The dream of Elizabeth faded away, and he became aware of his aching body once more.

He made himself open his eyes. The fog cleared, and he remembered where he was. Peter felt like he was waking up from a vivid dream, when you couldn't discern fantasy from reality. The remains of an office hallway were now collapsed around him. Peter couldn't even remember what floor they had been on. He smelled smoke, and _maybe _that was a siren in the distance. But he still couldn't shake the ringing in his ears.

Neal had been with him, walking down a hallway. He tried to remember what they were doing here. . . following a lead, of course, but he had no idea that they even needed backup, much less a bomb squad. Now the feelings and images came rushing back, bit by bit. He remembered that it _had _been a little odd that nobody was here. Once a thriving office building just the week before, there was no sign of life now, not even a potted plant. But he and Neal had stupidly soldiered on, going up to the office on the. . . what floor was it? Well, whatever office that Reynolds had occupied.

_"Maybe they left some shredded documents behind," Neal had said, shrugging, with his hands in his pant pockets. "We might find something useful. It's worth a look." _

And Peter had agreed. As the elevator shot up through the ghost town of a building, he had felt a little nervous without knowing why. He had pushed aside his doubts, thinking that the "company" had moved on after getting wind of the FBI investigation. It wasn't unusual. These people packed up and leaked out of town, only to colonize later somewhere else under a new name, to prey upon a new city.

But Neal had been right. They _had _left something behind, and plenty of it. Desks and file drawers and boxes were visible through the glass windows of Reynolds' office, full of evidence. After Peter opened the door with his gun drawn, just to be safe, he heard the click. Adrenaline was already pumping through his veins as he grabbed Neal's arm and shouted to "RUN!"

They never had a chance. For once, Neal listened, but they couldn't even make it to the stairwell before the bomb went off.

****************

Peter forced himself up on one elbow, to get a better look at his surroundings. Yes, the pain was unbearable, but Neal probably needed his help. Peter was alive, and he could move, no matter how excruciating it may be. He looked down at his own body for the first time and immediately looked away. Bright, white bone was protruding from beneath his bloodied knee. His head swam and bile rose threateningly to his throat, but he choked it down.

More sound was starting to reach his ears. Yes, those were definitely sirens, but who knew how long it would take for rescue to get here. He couldn't tell how close they were, especially considering his own voice still sounded miles away.

Peter looked around at what was left of the hallway, only seeing debris and parts of desks and broken walls. And sky. A huge hole had been blown in the side of the building, thankfully letting fresh air inside. But a new fear gripped Peter in the depths of his stomach. What if Neal had. . . ? No, he wouldn't let himself think that. Peter had been thrown clear of that area, so he hoped that Neal had as well.

The movement, again. Peter whipped his head around, wincing at the pain, but desperate to locate its origin. And there he was. Or there Neal's shoe was.

Poking out from a splintered piece of wood, what must've been a door, was a dusty black leather shoe. Probably an incredibly expensive shoe, too. Peter started dragging himself toward Neal, trying not think about his leg. If a compound fracture was the worst of his injuries, he should be thankful. The adrenaline was the only thing that kept him moving, allowing him to work through the pain. He knew it would get worse later, once the rush wore off, but for now, he would use it to get to Neal.

Finally within reach of his leg, Peter reached out and shook Neal's foot.

"Neal, please. Can you hear me? Are you okay?"

Nothing.

Peter tried to keep his panic under control as he dragged himself the final few feet, coming up even with where Neal's body must be buried. He struggled to push the debris away, cursing his own weakness.

A groan.

He was alive, then.

"Neal!" Peter shouted. Feeling the renewed surge of energy that could only be described as hope, Peter was able to push the hugest piece of wood off of Neal, revealing his upper body.

"Oh, my god." Peter felt sick again as he took in the horror of Neal's broken body. His face was ghost white under a huge gash in his forehead, pouring blood down the left side of his face. One large splinter from the wooden door had lodged itself into Neal's side, and his white collared shirt was almost completely soaked red beneath his torn jacket.

And that was just what Peter could see. He almost didn't want to move the rest of wreckage away. So he didn't.

"Neal, can you hear me?" Peter pushed himself up to the wall Neal slumped against. He carefully picked up Neal's wrist, checking for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there. Peter swallowed his fear and put his hand now against Neal's cheek.

"Neal, please, can you open your eyes?" Peter was begging now.

But Neal obeyed. His eyelids fluttered open, but the blue eyes registered no recognition as they rolled to the side. He closed them again, drifting away.

"Neal, no! It's me, Peter. Please say something."

Neal tried again, and this time, he actually saw Peter.

"Peter?" he said, croaking from the dust in the air.

"Yes, Neal. It's me." Peter couldn't ignore the relief that flooded through his body.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you everybody for the encouraging reviews. Now I know what people mean when they say reviews help them update faster!**

**I do not own or profit from the White Collar characters - I just love the show. **

****************

"I can't hear. . . it's ringing. . . " Neal started, looking confused.

"Yeah, I know. Me too," Peter said. "It was the explosion, but it'll get better."

"The explosion? What explosion?" Neal asked, obviously not taking in his surroundings.

"That doesn't matter right now," Peter said. "Can you move your legs?" He was becoming worried at how still Neal was, slumped against the wall.

"What?" Neal said, closing his eyes again.

"No, Neal," Peter said, louder. "Can you move your legs?"

"No Neal," Neal parroted. "Of course I can move. Look." As proof, Neal rolled his head to the side, seemingly unaware that Peter had asked about his legs. But when he turned his head, Peter got another shock. A dark patch of blood streaked the wall from where the back of his head had been, and Peter could see the thick wetness in his dark hair.

"Oh god, Neal," Peter moaned, starting to feel overwhelmed. At the very least, Neal probably had a concussion from being thrown against the wall, and he didn't even want to think about the possibility of a skull fracture. Peter didn't know what to do. When would help arrive? Neal was covered in blood. . . what if he started going into shock?

Neal tuned into Peter's frustration, even if he wasn't as quick on the uptake as usual. "Peter, it's okay," he said, consoling. Wanting to help Peter in some way, he tried to move his legs, but they were stuck. Neal groaned.

"What is it? Are you okay?" Peter asked frantically.

"No," Neal said. "I can't - I can't move my legs." Peter heard panic in his weak voice.

"It's okay," Peter said, his turn now to be placating. "I forgot that there's something on top of them. I'll try to move it."

Peter gathered up what was left of his energy and pushed with all of his strength. The rest of the debris finally slid away, freeing Neal's legs, but Peter cried out in pain. He had to push against the floor with his good leg to manage it, and he had jostled his broken leg in the process. What was more, the pain had radiated all the way to his chest, where he was sure now the adrenaline had been masking several broken ribs.

Peter fell back to the floor next to Neal, gasping, trying not to pass out.

"Thanks, Peter," Neal said quietly, putting one hand on Peter's arm. His weak fingers reached out and gripped him lightly, with all the strength he could manage.

As Peter felt darkness closing in, he realized that he couldn't hear sirens anymore. He didn't know what he could do for Neal, feeling this way himself. It wasn't as if they could walk anywhere. Hell, there wasn't anywhere to walk. They'd never make it to the stairs, even if they could find a pathway through the rubble. Peter couldn't put pressure on Neal's wound because of the frighteningly large piece of wood sticking out of it, and he didn't dare touch his own leg, which he could feel was soaking his own pants leg in blood.

What if they died up here?

What if he never saw Elizabeth again?

****************

"Elizabeth," Peter spoke out, to nobody in particular. He was drifting back to the dream from before. He reached across his body and laid a hand over Neal's. He would never have done this in any other situation, but he was starting to feel like he might lose consciousness, and he knew Neal might be the last human he ever touched. It wasn't Elizabeth, but it was one of his best friends. The man he spent almost every daylight hour with. The man he trusted as much as Neal had admitted he trusted him. So yes, he could admit this to himself, right now. Neal was his friend, and if it couldn't be Elizabeth. . .

"Elizabeth?" Neal asked, interrupting Peter's drifting. "Is Elizabeth here?"

Peter sighed, climbing up back to the present. It was an effort, but he managed to remember that Neal was injured, probably concussed, on the brink of shock and possibly worse. He took this opportunity to turn over Neal's hand and discreetly feel his wrist for a pulse. It was faster than before, and his skin felt cool and clammy. He had to get Neal out of here, soon.

"Neal," Peter said, gently shaking his wrist. "Do you have your cell phone?"

"Ooooh, good idea!" Neal gushed. Peter looked over and saw a grin reminiscent of Neal's stint as a psych patient at the Howser Clinic.

"Let's call her," Neal mumbled, patting his jacket pockets. But instead of the phone, he found blood. Putting his reddened hand up to his face, what little color was left drained out of it.

Neal pitched to the side, away from Peter, and heaved violently. Peter thought the vomiting was expected, considering the concussion and Neal's sensitivity to gore, so he wasn't surprised, but he was still worried. Neal couldn't afford to lose any more fluids.

Peter painfully pushed himself up to Neal's side again and put a hand on his back. He knew how horrible it felt to throw up, and somehow, this moment made him feel sorrier for Neal than before. Elizabeth always rubbed his back when he was sick at home, kneeling beside the toilet, and the small gesture always made him feel better.

Neal choked back a cry of pain from falling on his injured side, but he didn't have the strength to move again. Instead, he stayed sideways on the floor. Peter hoped he wasn't lying in his vomit, but he didn't say anything. He just kept rubbing his back.

"Ugh," Neal groaned, his voice full of misery. "There's so much blood. I'm feeling really dizzy, Peter." Neal's words were becoming more slurred than before, and it sounded like every syllable cost a mountain of effort.

"I know, kid," Peter said. "But help will be here soon."

"Really?" Neal asked, suddenly sounding young. "How do you know?"

"Because I heard sirens earlier," he answered, although he didn't voice his worries over how long it was taking.

"It's moving. . . " Neal mumbled.

"What's moving?" Peter asked, looking around.

"Everything," Neal answered, closing his eyes against the dizziness. "Did you call Elizabeth?"

"No, did you find your phone?"

"Oh yeah. . . " Neal searched again, this time pulling his phone out of a breast pocket. He held it close to his face, squinting, but then suddenly flung it away from him. Due to his weakness, the phone landed a pitiful two feet away.

"Broken," he announced, sourly. "What about yours?"

"It's gone," Peter said, looking down again at his sickening leg. His pants were torn and bloodied, and he could feel that he had lost the bulk of his phone.

"Did you try your gun?" Neal asked.

"What about my gun?"

"Did you try calling her? She might hear it, if she's around," Neal said.

Peter nearly hit himself for not thinking of it earlier. Instead, he lightly thumped Neal's back and said, "Neal, you're brilliant!" To this Neal made a sound of assent, but then it dawned on Peter – if he couldn't find his phone, which had been in his pocket, he would have an even harder time finding his gun, which had been in his hand.

He scanned the area, looking over to where he had been lying earlier, but there was no telling where his gun was. Even if it was sitting right next to him, it could still be buried a foot deep.

Peter groaned, trying to keep the hopelessness from overtaking him again. Neal was in the beginning stages of shock, and all they could do was sit here in agony and wait. It was possible that somebody might be able to figure out where Reynolds' office was, but Peter didn't think that detail was in the case file. He and Neal only knew where to go from visiting last week. If the explosion caused the elevators to go out, then a rescue team would have to take the stairs, combing every floor for signs of life. . . would they make it up here in time?


	3. Chapter 3

**I do not own or profit from the White Collar characters - I just love the show.**

**Is anybody else already starting to worry that there are only TWO more episodes left this season? What will we all do with ourselves?!**

****************

Almost forty minutes had passed since the explosion. The firemen knew that every minute was important. One minute could mean the difference between surviving and bleeding out, or running out of air, or a heart contracting one last time. So when the two firemen who were searching the sixteenth floor pushed open the metal stairwell door and spotted the two victims down the hall, they were overcome with relief.

One of them, the younger one they now knew was Neal Caffrey, was lying on his side on the floor. Motionless, covered in blood, and shock white. The other man, FBI agent Peter Burke, was leaning against the wall with one hand on Neal. They were either unconscious or dead, because neither one of them looked up as the two men approached.

Mike, one of the firemen, grabbed his walkie. "This is Mike on sixteen. We got 'em, both of 'em. Send the medics. This floor is clear."

As the two men approached, they called out to Peter and Neal.

No response.

But Peter could hear them. That familiar distant, underwater sound. He wrenched his eyes open and saw rescue. He hoped they were in time for Neal.

"Neal," he said, rubbing his back again, but with renewed hope and energy this time. "Wake up."

Neal didn't answer. The fireman named Mike was suddenly kneeling down beside them, while the other man was clearing a wider path back to the door.

"Agent Burke, my name is Mike Farino. We're here to rescue you. Your wife Elizabeth is downstairs."

Elizabeth was really here? Peter's heart nearly exploded with happiness, but it was contained by his concern for Neal.

"Neal . . . he's lost a lot of blood," was all he could say.

"I can see that," Mike said. "And the medics are almost here. They'll have oxygen and fluids for Neal. Can you tell me where you're hurt?"

"My - my leg. And my ribs, I think."

"Okay, and what about Neal? Has he been conscious at all?"

"Yes, but he hit his head pretty hard. He hasn't moved much, so I'm not sure . . . " Peter dropped off, suddenly overcome with exhaustion, now that he knew help was here. When this had all begun, all he wanted was to see Elizabeth again. Then he just wanted Neal to be okay. After that, he wanted them to be rescued. Was he running out of wishes? Was it too much to hope that Neal would get _out _okay, as well?

Peter heard a sound down the hall and saw, miraculously, a team of medics bursting through the door. Men and women wearing blue uniforms, carrying two stretchers and bags full of the equipment that he hoped would save Neal. They must've taken the stairs the whole way, carrying everything.

Peter closed his eyes and just listened. He heard a distant voice say, "I've got a pulse," and sighed in relief as they started IV fluids and pumped oxygen into Neal's body. He barely registered what was happening to his own body now. He couldn't wait to see Elizabeth. It would be easy to drift off, now that he didn't have to stay awake, but he wanted to talk to her, and to tell her that everything would be okay. She was probably worried sick. No, she was probably worried to death by now.

"Will you tell my wife that I'm okay?" Peter asked, opening his eyes and looking into a woman's face. She smiled down at him before gently placing an oxygen mask over his face.

"Mike, you hear that?" she asked.

"I already radioed it down," Mike answered. "She knows he's alive."

Peter wanted to ask about Neal, but he couldn't talk through the mask, and he could see that the other team had already loaded Neal up on a stretcher and were rushing towards the stairwell.

The trek down sixteen flights of stairs was horrible. Although the medics had tied Peter down well and were being as careful as possible, they were still trying to rush, and their every step shot daggers through his broken leg.

Either Peter made a sound, or the medics were attuned to his pain, because the woman from before said, "We'll get you some pain meds soon, Agent Burke. Just hold on a little while longer."

_I've already been holding on long enough, _Peter thought, barely believing that this ordeal could be over. The agents working in the white collar division rarely saw action like this. Bombs and near-death experiences were few and far between, but Peter had to admit, things had gotten a little more interesting with Neal around. A little too interesting, maybe, after what happened today.

"Oh my god, Peter! Peter!" A heavenly voice suddenly burst through the cloud of Peter's thoughts.

"Elizabeth?" Her beautiful face floated into his line of vision, and she truly looked angelic in the haze of his oxygen-fueled exhaustion. She didn't hear him, though, because of the mask.

"Is he okay?" she asked the female paramedic, panicked, her voice choked with fear. Peter could see tears running down her cheeks. Her face was swollen and red, like she had been crying for hours.

The medics were now loading Peter onto a rolling gurney. He tried to reach up to remove the mask, to talk to Elizabeth, but his arms were secured to the stretcher.

"Yes, he's fine," the woman said. She reached down and moved the mask for him, noticing his anxiety.

"El," Peter breathed, trying to communicate in that one word how much he loved her.

"Oh Peter, I'm so glad you're okay!" Elizabeth leaned down and put both of her hands on either side of his face. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," Peter said. He noticed El look up worriedly and then put a hand to her mouth.

"Oh no, is Neal - ?" she gasped.

"He's okay, I think," Peter said. "They said he had a pulse . . . "

Elizabeth looked horrified. Peter couldn't imagine how bad it must've been for her to stand down here, waiting.

Just then, Agent Jones walked up and put an arm around Elizabeth.

"Hey, Peter, I'm glad you're okay."

"It's good to see you too, Jones," Peter said. "How's Caffrey?"

"The first bus is already leaving with him now," Jones said, as he looked away in that direction. "He looks horrible, but . . . well, Caffrey's tough." Jones looked worried, and he didn't quite meet Peter's eye as he said this. "Hey, I'll be at the hospital as soon as I can. Hughes has us cleaning up your mess around here, first."

"Sorry about that," Peter said, trying to smile but feeling like he couldn't talk much longer.

Jones grinned and patted Peter on the shoulder before walking away.

"Mrs. Burke?" A different paramedic had arrived and was replacing Peter's oxygen mask. "We've got to get your husband to the hospital now. You can ride along, if you want."

"Yes, of course I want to," Elizabeth said, reaching down to squeeze Peter's hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**I do not own or profit from the White Collar characters - I just love the show (and this week's episode). **

****************

Everything that happened to Peter before his surgery – the ride in the ambulance, his short time in the emergency room – became a blur in his memory. Comforted by the first dose of pain meds and the knowledge that Elizabeth was by his side, he could finally start to relax and let somebody else take control for once. But when this thought first came to him, he started feeling guilty that he _hadn't _taken control while he and Neal were waiting for help. He started remembering little things he could've done to help Neal - like elevating his feet - and he couldn't get those haunting images out of his head: Neal's pale face, his blue eyes full of pain and confusion. That streak of blood on the wall behind his head. The piece of wood, lodged so deeply into his body, draining him of life.

If anything happened to Neal, Peter decided, it would be _his _fault. He was in charge of Neal. The other agents might joke about his "pet convict," but even a relationship like that implies responsibility on Peter's part.

_I should've called for backup, _Peter worried. _I shouldn't have even had Neal with me in the first place! As soon as we saw the office building was abandoned . . . _

Peter barely knew what people were saying to him. He could respond, and he thought that he was doing it well, at least well enough to satisfy Elizabeth, but he was consumed by his obsessive worry. Why wasn't anybody giving him an update?

Suddenly Elizabeth was by his side, telling him good-bye.

"Where are you going?" he asked, startled out of his thoughts. What was happening?

"You're going to surgery, dear," she said, gently. "I'm sorry you've had to wait this long, being in so much pain."

"Wait," he said, recognizing his last chance. "What about Neal? Is he okay?"

Elizabeth sighed and smiled at him in an almost pitying way. "He's hasn't gotten out of surgery since the last time you asked. Nobody knows anything yet, but I'm sure you'll be the first person to know when they do."

"Elizabeth, if anything . . ." Peter wanted to unload his guilt before leaving, but he didn't know what to say.

"I know," she said. "I love you too."

Peter was momentarily confused, but he decided that the drugs were to blame, and he didn't say anything else as a nurse started to roll his bed out of the room. He reacted very strongly to certain narcotics, and he wondered what they had given him. Surely Elizabeth would know what to tell them. Peter reached out to grab Elizabeth's hand, and she walked alongside him until they pushed him through the doors to the OR, and their hands broke apart.

****************

"Welcome back to the world of the living," said a familiar voice.

Peter opened his eyes, but then shut them immediately against the harsh light.

"Oops, sorry about that," the same voice said, and he heard a lamp being clicked off. Peter could also hear strange mechanical, clicking sounds, some distant beeping, and a low TV. He remembered enough to know that he was in the hospital, but he he couldn't place the voice speaking to him now.

"Mr. Suit," the voice said. "Are you really awake this time?"

Peter tried opening his eyes again, and this time, he matched a face to the voice.

"Mozzie?" he asked, shocked to see the man. His voice croaked on the word, and his throat burned with thirst.

"Yes, yes, it's me. Elizabeth chose the perfect time to go get lunch." Mozzie looked slightly uncomfortable as he reached over for a cup of water and held the straw up to Peter's lips.

Peter gratefully took a sip, and asked, "But what are you doing here? Where's - ?"

Before he could say the word, Mozzie looked pointedly over to his left. Peter followed his gaze and gasped in surprise.

"Neal?" Neal was actually in Peter's room, lying in the next bed. Peter felt so overcome with relief that Neal was actually _alive _that he didn't consider at first how horrible he _looked. _But as he took stock of his partner, he realized that there wasn't much else to celebrate. Neal looked nearly as bad as he had up on that hellish sixteenth floor. Although the gash on his face was stitched up, he was still extremely pale, and his usual immaculate locks were flat and damp against his forehead. What was more, Neal was hooked up to a frightening number of wires and tubes and machines. He looked so . . . well, not how Neal was supposed to look. And too much like he had looked in those haunting images that had invaded Peter's drug-induced dreams.

"Is he gonna be alright?" Peter asked, turning back to Mozzie.

Mozzie looked away, towards the window. He wouldn't speak for a minute, but when he finally found his voice, he said, "They don't know. He's been in a coma for three days. The surgery was a success, but . . . they're afraid he might never wake up."

Peter suddenly felt sick, like the room and everything in it was spinning out of control. He could barely hear an alarm start beeping by his bed. This was his fault, he started telling himself, and he had to fix it. There had to be _something _he could do. Neal was just lying right there next to him! He didn't look _that _bad, not like he had been in a coma for . . .

"Wait, you said three days?" Peter asked. "But that would mean that I've . . ."

"I _told _you he wouldn't buy the coma story," came a hoarse, weak voice from the bed next to him.

Peter snapped his head around to stare at Neal in open-mouthed shock. Neal's head was turned on the pillow, staring right back at him with wide, piercing blue eyes.

"Oh, come on, he was _so _buying it," Mozzie argued.

Peter couldn't believe it. He also couldn't keep up very well, and it took a minute before he realized they had been playing a trick on him.

A nurse walked into the room. "Is everything okay in here?" she said, coming around to the side of Peter's bed and checking one of the machines. "Your heart rate just shot through the roof, Agent Burke. Are you alright?"

Peter felt his face getting red. "Everything's fine, I was just . . . surprised, by something." Peter could hear barely-concealed snickering coming from both sides of the room.

"Okay, well how about we cut down on the surprises in here then," the nurse said, giving Mozzie a warning glare. "I can get you some meds, if you're feeling a little anxious."

"No, no," Peter said, wanting her to leave. "I'm really fine. I feel better now."

"Well, you certainly do seem to be feeling better. You've been a little confused today, but your wife said you don't tolerate anesthesia very well."

Peter was getting hot, even though the room was cold and he was only wearing a thin gown. He wanted this conversation to end, and he felt sure some other machine would start going off if it didn't. "Yeah, I'm fine now, thanks."

"Alright," she said. "Well, let me know if you need anything. You too, Mr. Caffrey."

Once she was gone, Mozzie burst out laughing, and Neal just kept grinning stupidly.

"Wow," Neal said, raising his eyebrows. "You really don't remember anything you've been saying today, Peter?"

Peter chose not to dignify this question with a response, so instead he asked, "Whose bright idea was it for us to be roommates?"

"That would be Elizabeth," Mozzie said. "Oh, which reminds me. I was supposed to go find her if you woke up again." He pushed himself up out of the chair and left the room, leaving Neal and Peter alone.

"Aw, come on Peter. Don't be mad. It was just a little fun," Neal said. "What else is there to do around here?"

Peter turned to look at Neal again. Despite Neal's playful tone, he hadn't moved an inch this entire time. He hadn't even lifted his head. Peter forced himself to remember the worry and guilt he had felt earlier.

"I'm not mad about that," he finally said. "I'm not mad at all. I'm actually pretty damn relieved."

Neal smiled. "I know," he said. "I mean, I know you were worried about me. And I'm sorry, Peter. About all of this. I'm sorry I wanted to go up and play detective yesterday."

"You're sorry?!" Peter laughed out loud, and then immediately regretted it. His forgotten broken ribs screamed in protest, and he had to stifle a moan of pain.

"Are you okay?" Neal asked.

"Yeah, sure," Peter said. For the first time since waking up, he took stock of his injuries. His broken leg looked like it was hooked up to some sort of torture device, keeping him completely immobile, but the sight was at least more welcome than bone sticking out of his leg.

"Hey, Peter?" Neal said. "I want to thank you, for everything you did up there. I don't really remember much, but I do remember you always being there. You helped me to hang on."

"Don't mention it," Peter said, feeling uncomfortable again with the mushy turn of the conversation. "I didn't really do much to help, anyway. I could've done more."

"No, don't start that again," Neal said, in a warning voice. Peter couldn't remember ever starting this conversation with Neal before, but he suspected it had something to do with his "confusion" from before. He tried not to feel embarrassed, but he couldn't help but wonder what all he had said. He almost didn't want to know . . .

"It's over," Neal said. "We're alive, and that's what matters."

"Right," Peter agreed. Despite what Peter may have said, Neal was still in no place to make fun of anybody for drug-induced confessions.

**************

"Michael Westen is just such a badass. How can you not love this show?" Neal asked, incredulous.

Peter shrugged, wincing at the pain that every little gesture still caused. "It just seems a little unrealistic," he said, putting a hand gingerly to his ribs. "He's always causing trouble, but he never gets caught!"

Neal laughed, enjoying the comment. "Maybe if he had an FBI agent like you on his tail."

"Good point," Peter agreed.

There was a knock on the door.

"Good evening, boys," Elizabeth said, striding in, looking amazing in a black dress. "I brought dinner!"

"Thank god, I'm starving," Peter said, wheeling aside to make room for her to come into the cramped hospital room. After their post-op roommate experience, Peter had been sent to another shared room on the orthopedics floor, but Neal was rewarded with his own private room. Neal insisted it was because of his criminal status, but Peter suspected otherwise.

Elizabeth set the bags of food down on the table and walked over to Neal's bed. She sat down next to him and pushed a wave of damp hair out of his eyes.

"You're looking a little better, Neal," she said. "You've got a bit more color today."

"Great," he said, smiling, enjoying the attention. He was becoming more like himself everyday, but he still looked pale and thin. The surgery and the CT scans and the blood transfusions wore him out, and even with a private room, he couldn't sleep much with people bustling in and out all night. Although Neal claimed that he would bust out of the hospital any day now, he didn't look like he was recovering very quickly.

"Soup?!" Peter exclaimed, rummaging through the bags. "I thought you were bringing something good, like a steak."

"Well, Neal is still on a liquid diet, so I didn't want to make him feel bad," Elizabeth explained, giving Peter a stern a look.

"Hey, you guys don't have to do that for me. I'm not hungry for much of anything right now."

"Neal," Elizabeth said, turning back toward him. "The more you eat, the better you'll feel, and the sooner you can come home."

"Home?" Neal and Peter both asked at the same time.

"Yes, home," she said. "Did you think I was going to let you go stay all by yourself?"

"Well, Mozzie and June . . ." Neal started.

"Can come visit whenever they want," she finished, firmly. Peter and Neal both knew there was no use in arguing.


	5. Chapter 5

**I don't want to give anything away for those who haven't watched the finale yet, but this obviously takes place before that. By the way, who's not upset AT ALL about what happened? ;)**

**I do not own or profit from the White Collar characters – I just love the show.**

****************

Two days later, Peter was fidgeting on the couch, waiting for Elizabeth to come back. She hadn't wanted to leave Peter alone, worried that he would fall and hurt himself, but she also wanted to be the one to bring Neal "home." After Peter swore up and down that he wouldn't budge from the couch until she returned, she finally agreed to leave him.

Peter's ears perked up when he heard the Taurus outside. He had to admit that it got pretty boring around here without work or Neal to distract him, as much as the younger man frustrated him sometimes. He would've enjoyed his time alone with Elizabeth, but she was too busy worrying about the two of them to be much fun.

The key turned in the lock, and Elizabeth appeared with her new, ever-present worried face. Following close behind was Neal, ashen-faced and clutching El's arm, looking uncharacteristic in sweat pants and a t-shirt. Satchmo jumped up from the floor beside Peter and bounced around Neal, trying to catch his attention.

"Damn, you look worse than when I left you," Peter remarked.

"It was the car ride," he answered, taking every step slowly. Elizabeth faced him and offered both arms for support, guiding him to the couch. Peter was taking up most of it, lying lengthwise with his cast, but there was space for Neal to sit by his feet.

"Here, want me to move?" Peter asked, starting to move his leg.

"No, no, it's okay," Neal gasped. Elizabeth was helping him sit now, and it looked to be an extremely painful procedure.

"I'm surprised they let you out so soon," Peter said.

"Yeah, well, time is money, and I'm not exactly on the FBI's premium insurance plan," Neal said. "Plus, I couldn't get a wink of sleep up there."

"I'm gonna go get your things out of the car," Elizabeth said. "Are you okay for now?"

"Yes," he said, letting his head fall back against the couch. "This is great. Right here." Peter watched cautiously as Neal's breath slowed and his color came back a little.

"Now you know why I always drive," Peter said.

Neal turned and gave him a harrowed look. "I thought I was gonna puke." He closed his eyes again. "Maybe I did."

Peter laughed. "Well, I'm still glad to see you up and about. I've been getting pretty bored without you annoying me all the time."

Neal murmured unintelligibly and looked like he was about to fall asleep when Elizabeth came back through the door. She threw his bags down and immediately started looking through them. She found two pill bottles and took them to the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" Neal asked, turning to look at her.

"Getting your pills. For both of you," she called over her shoulder.

When Neal turned his head, Peter couldn't contain his surprise at what he saw. "They shaved your head!" he exclaimed, about to laugh but unsure of how sensitive Neal would be about it. Considering how perfect his hair always looked, Peter thought Neal might be more than a little bent out of shape.

"Yeah, but just a small patch, where the stitches are," Neal said, automatically reaching back to touch the area. "And luckily for me, I look good in a hat."

Peter just rolled his eyes in response.

Elizabeth emerged moments later carrying a tray, which she set down on the coffee table in front of them. She seemed to be enjoying her role as their nurse as she doled out pills, water, and two glass bowls of strawberry jell-o.

"What is this?" Neal asked suspiciously, taking the two large pills from her.

"Pain meds and antibiotics. And no arguments. Even if you think you can handle the pain, the doctor said you need the pills to heal."

"Hey, you don't hear any arguments from me," Neal said, taking them both with one swig of water.

"And the same goes for you, Peter," she said, turning on her husband. "You haven't been taking your pain meds often enough." Peter grumbled but took his pill too, not wanting to be the difficult patient.

"I brought you both jell-o because Neal should have something on his stomach with those antibiotics."

"Thanks, Elizabeth," Neal said. "You know, you really don't have to do all of this. I already feel like a burden, and I just got here."

"Neal, please listen to me. We both want you here, and you're not a burden. You're our friend. Right, Peter?" She gave Peter a look that clearly demanded an affirmative response.

"Right," Peter said quickly, catching the hint. "That's right, Neal, it's no problem."

"Good," she said. "I'm gonna go make some dinner. Peter, make sure he eats his jell-o," she warned, as she walked out of the room.

Neal didn't feel like eating anything, but he took a couple of bites to keep Peter from getting into trouble.

"So, did you get any visitors after I left the hospital?" Peter asked.

"Mm hmm." Neal nodded. "Mozzie came up there pretty much everyday, as did June." Neither one of them mentioned Kate. "Oh, and Cruz did as well," he added, as an afterthought.

"Cruz? Really?" Peter was surprised. Lauren was the one who gave Neal the most flak, but maybe she had a soft spot for him after all. Peter looked over and noticed that Neal was definitely falling asleep now. He decided to let him rest, at least until Elizabeth pestered him into eating dinner.

****************

Later that night, Neal and Peter were both giddy with pain meds and the few sips of wine Elizabeth had allowed them. They were trying to decide who would sleep where.

"Honest, you guys. I'll go wherever you put me. If Peter's attached to the couch, I'll be happy to take the guest room." Neal had recovered from the car ride and was feeling much better after his medicine, nap, and a little bit of Elizabeth's home cooking.

"No, Neal," Elizabeth was saying. "It's time that Peter slept in his own bed. He can't stay downstairs forever. He'll be in this cast for weeks!"

Peter groaned. "Don't remind me, El. Why don't we all just have a slumber party down here?"

Neal let out a delighted laugh and grinned impishly. "I'm going to remember you said that, Peter."

"I didn't say that," Peter said, swatting away the remark.

"Okay, you two, it's time for bed," Elizabeth said, getting up. "Peter, we're gonna get you upstairs. It's now or never."

"Oh, this should be good," Neal said, looking way too excited as he pushed himself up on the couch.

Peter groaned again but let Elizabeth pull him to his feet. She reached over for his crutches and handed them to him. "You just wait, Neal. She'll be making you take these steps tomorrow," Peter said. "Remind me again - why did we buy a house with such steep stairs?" He hobbled over to the stairs and looked up, warily.

"Here, honey, remember how the physical therapist showed you." She took the crutches from him and demonstrated how to ascend each step. Then she handed the crutches back down to him so he could try.

Neal watched, amused, as it took Peter nearly five minutes to take twenty steps. It was obvious Peter was winded, and frustrated, by the time he reached the top. When he did, he called down to Neal. "Good night, Neal! I hope you enjoy my couch," he added, grumpily.

"I will, Peter. Good night!" Neal called back.

Once she had put him to bed, Elizabeth came back down to bring Neal blankets and tuck him in for the night. When she kissed him on the forehead, Neal really did feel like he had come home.

****************

Neal was woken up by Peter nearly crashing down the stairs. Well, really, it was more of Elizabeth's shushing and Peter's swearing that woke him. Neal jolted awake, sitting up way too fast, and then grinned at the scene before him.

Peter was halfway to falling, and Elizabeth was trying to keep him propped upright. His crutches had already fallen down before him, and the two of them looked very stuck.

"I'll get your crutches, Peter," Neal offered, starting to stand. The relief from last night's pain meds was long gone, though, and searing pain tore through his side as he stood.

"Thanks, Neal," Elizabeth said. Then she looked over and noticed him putting out a shaky hand against the wall to steady himself. "Are you okay?" She didn't know what she would do if both men went down at once.

Neal felt pathetic, and he didn't think he should still be feeling this weak, so he ignored the pain and went to get the crutches anyway. "Yeah, Elizabeth. I'm fine." Bending down to pick them up was excruciating, and he couldn't stifle the moan that escaped him as he did.

"You don't sound fine," Peter said, watching his movements closely. Neal held the crutches out to Elizabeth, grateful he didn't have to climb any steps, but he stayed close, in case Peter came tumbling down. Not that he could do anything to prevent it, if he did.

But everybody got downstairs safely, and soon Elizabeth had them both sitting at the table, facing their pills and their breakfast.

After they ate, Peter was reassuring his wife that she could at least go in for a half-day today.

"Really, honey. Between the two of us, we'll be fine. What would you do all day? Watch Neal sleep?"

"I'm not worried about getting bored," Elizabeth argued. "If you fell, there's no way Neal could get you up. And vice versa."

"Hey, a little credit here," Neal said, looking indignant. "I'm not the invalid. _I'll _be the one taking care of Peter."

Peter and El gave Neal matching looks of amused disbelief, and then promptly ignored him. After a brief argument, they reached a compromise, although Peter felt sure he had won. Elizabeth would go to work, but she would return at lunch to check up on her patients. How much trouble could they get into under house arrest, anyway?


	6. Chapter 6

**I do not own or profit from the White Collar characters – I'm just trying to survive the withdrawal by writing about them.**

********************

Peter awoke from his nap with an uneasy feeling. He supposed the TV woke him, even though he noticed that Neal had turned the volume down. Looking over at Neal, he saw that his cheeks were a little pink, and he decided that the blanket was too heavy for this time of year. But Peter also noticed that Neal was clutching the blanket tightly under his chin, as if he desperately needed the warmth. Peter simply could not ignore the paternal instinct to feel for a temperature, so he tried to discreetly lay the back of his hand against Neal's forehead.

Neal was sleeping so lightly that Peter's movement on the couch was enough to wake him, and he opened his eyes to see Peter leaning over him, frozen with his hand stretched towards Neal's face.

"Peter," Neal said slowly, looking at him with cautious eyes. "What are you doing?"

Caught red-handed, Peter sunk back against the pillows. "I was going to feel your temperature. You look a little feverish."

Neal reflected upon this, and then shivered dramatically. "Well, it's freezing in here."

"No, Neal, it's not freezing in here," Peter said. "I feel fine, and I'm not the one under a heavy blanket."

"Okay then, go ahead," Neal said, smiling. When Peter hesitated, he added, "You know you want to."

Peter looked like he was about to argue, but then remembered that it was his idea in the first place, so he reached over again. Neal's skin was definitely warm to the touch, but that could easily be explained by his overheating under the blanket.

"You feel a little warm, but I'd have to get the thermometer to know for sure," Peter told him.

"Well, I feel fine, for the most part," Neal said. "Let's just finish this movie."

****************

Peter abruptly woke again, but this time, his cell phone was the culprit. He was momentarily disoriented by the darkness in the room before he realized that the movie, and the day, had ended. The twilight invaded through the open windows, scattering eerie shadows through the room and across Neal's body. Neal turned fitfully at the sound of the phone, but he didn't wake.

"Hi El," Peter whispered, reading the caller id.

_"Hey, what's going on? Why are you whispering?" _

"Oh, Neal is just sleeping. We just finished watching a movie."

_"Have you eaten dinner yet? I'm sorry I'm late - it's been crazy up here at work, playing catch-up." _

"No, we haven't eaten yet, but don't feel bad. Take your time. I think I'll probably just heat up the leftovers from lunch," Peter said, not bothering to keep his voice down anymore when he saw that Neal wasn't going to wake up.

_"Okay, well leave me some of the pad thai. And by the way, how did Neal's wound look this afternoon when you changed the dressing?" _

Peter inwardly swore at himself for forgetting the one task he was given today. He didn't want to admit that he hadn't done it yet, so he said, "It looks . . . fine. Healing, and everything." He would have plenty of time to change Neal's dressing before Elizabeth got home, and she would never have to know.

_"Okay, good. Well, I'm going to try to leave soon. Call me if you need anything!"_

"Okay, honey. Bye bye." Peter hung up the phone and then looked at Neal. He was just about to wake him up when the phone rang again.

Peter picked up without checking the caller id and said, "Forget something?"

"_Hey, I've been busy over here trying to shoulder your work! This is the first chance I had to call."_

"Jones! I'm sorry, I thought you were Elizabeth calling me back. How's everything going?"

"_Well, like I said, it's a little hectic with one agent down. When are you coming back?"_

"I think the doctor will clear me for desk duty by next week. How's the case coming along?"

"_That's exactly why I called. Pat Kiley up in Boston thinks he's got Reynolds. Going by a different name, of course, but they're pretty sure it's him. We can tie him to forensic evidence from the explosion, so it's a pretty strong case. Wouldn't be surprised if they picked him up tomorrow." _

"Well, I hope they hurry. He moves pretty fast once he knows the FBI is onto him," Peter warned.

"_I know, we learned from that one. Kiley's first contact will be the only contact."_

"That's good to hear. I can't wait to see that bastard behind bars. Hey, thanks for the update."

"_Sure thing, boss. See you soon."_

Neal was finally starting to wake up, stretching and yawning like a cat. "Hey," he said, opening his eyes. "What's all this talk about bastards?"

"Reynolds," Peter said. "Apparently he set up shop in Boston, but the Bureau is about to make a move. Sounds like they might actually catch him this time."

"Good," Neal said. "He deserves to be caught. No class at all."

"Yeah, whatever you say. I think we slept through dinner time - are you hungry?" Peter asked.

Neal thought for a second and then shook his head. "No, I'm not actually."

"Well, Elizabeth will kill me if I don't make you eat. That is, if she hasn't already killed me for forgetting to changing your bandages today."

"Oh yeah," Neal said. "I forgot too. When is she coming home?"

Peter smiled. "That's exactly what I was thinking. She hasn't left work yet, so let me go get the stuff, and then I'll heat up dinner."

"Peter, please," Neal said, throwing the blanket off of him. "It's such a production for you to get around. _I'll _start heating the food, and then I'll bring you the stuff."

"Hmm, okay. I can live with that." Peter leaned back against the couch while Neal started to sit up. As he pushed himself up to a sitting position, though, Neal drew in a sharp intake of breath and grabbed his side.

"What is it, Neal?" Peter said, putting a hand on his back. "Are you okay?"

"Ahh, I think so," Neal said, grimacing in pain. "It's just that this hurts almost worse than before. I keep waiting for it to feel better."

"Well, maybe you should just stay here on the couch," Peter suggested. "I think El left everything in the upstairs bathroom anyway."

"No, no," Neal said, shaking his head. "I've been sitting here all day. I need to stretch my legs."

After Neal bustled around in the kitchen and then made his way to the stairs, Peter remembered that Elizabeth had instructed him to help Neal in any way that he could.

"_But what am I supposed to do?" Peter had asked. "Stand at the bottom of the stairs and break his fall?" _

"_Yes," Elizabeth said. "If that's all you can do to help, then do that."_

Peter was helping now by watching Neal ascend the stairs from the couch. He reached the top without much excitement, unless you counted stopping midway to catch his breath. But Neal often did that recently, just walking around on level surfaces. Neal paused with his hand on the banister, and he ducked his head down to look at Peter through the railing.

"I think you're right about the fever," Neal called down. "I'm definitely feeling a little woozy."

"Great," Peter said. "Things take a turn for the worse on the one day Elizabeth trusts me to take care of you. You know, she's never gonna leave you alone with me now!" Neal grinned and continued his ascent, and soon Peter heard the faucet running above him.

In about ten minutes, Neal was on his way back down, carrying the medical supplies. Peter was flipping through the television channels when he saw Neal stop and clutch the banister out of the corner of his eye. He turned and watched, helpless, as Neal's knees buckled and he took one unsteady step, swaying dangerously.

"Whoa, Neal, hold on!" Peter jumped up as fast as he could, hoping that he could catch Neal before he passed out. He hopped over to the stairs on one leg, not taking the time to grab his crutches, but he knew he wouldn't make it in time. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Neal was already on his way down, trying to slide down into a sitting position against the wall, but failing miserably. Instead, he fell completely forward, coming straight towards Peter.

As he was falling through the air, Neal's body twisted so that his back collided against Peter's chest, sending them both crashing into the wall so hard that Peter's breath was knocked out of him. He lost his balance on impact, but Peter tried to protect Neal from the next fall by keeping his body between Neal and the floor. Trying and actually succeeding, however, are two very different things, and it all happened very fast.

In order to absorb the shock of the fall, Peter had quickly wrapped his arms around Neal as they were going down, and this pressure against his abdomen was the first thing Neal felt as he came to.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked through gritted teeth. When they had both hit the wall, Peter had been forcefully reminded that he still had fractured ribs, but he also thought he had done a pretty good job of breaking Neal's fall, as El had instructed him to do earlier.

Neal didn't answer. He was exploring the second sensation he felt, as Peter pulled his arms out from underneath him. A strange relief of pressure accompanied the movement, almost like something had given way. He expected pain, but instead . . .

"Oh no," Peter said, looking at the hand that had been against Neal's stomach. It had the slightest hint of blood on it, just a little bit damp from touching Neal's shirt. Neal looked down and could see where the blood must've leaked out from under his dressing, and was now staining his t-shirt.

"Must've not been taped very well," was all Neal said, starting to feel light-headed again.

"Here, lay back down, and let me look at it," Peter said, rolling Neal away from him. Peter struggled to a sitting position and then lifted Neal's shirt up to his chest. Sure enough, the tape had ripped off on one side. Peter lifted the bandage and was dismayed to see bright, fresh blood seeping out from between a long line of staples. "Does it hurt?" he asked Neal.

"It feels weird," Neal answered honestly. "Not necessarily worse than before, but I can't tell." He closed his eyes.

"Does anything else hurt, from the fall?"

"No, Peter. Everything's okay," Neal said, his tone taking on that singsong quality Peter was now recognizing as his delirious voice. He tried to push aside the guilt of sending Neal upstairs to get everything, but he definitely couldn't ignore the strong sense of déjà vu he felt with Neal lying on the floor, bleeding beside him.

Peter tried to be gentle pulling off the remainder of the tape, but he still noticed that Neal started taking more rapid, shallow breaths as he worked.

"Am I hurting you?" Peter asked, as he started swabbing around the staples with one of the clean pieces of gauze Neal had dropped.

"No, you're doing great," Neal answered. He became acutely aware of the rise and fall of his chest, with Peter so close to him, and he wondered if Peter was feeling uncomfortable. "What are you doing now?" he asked, when he felt cool fingers press down gently around the edges of the wound.

"I'm feeling for warmth and tenderness, like your discharge papers said to do. The area is definitely warm. Does it feel tender?"

"Yes," Neal said. "Is that bad?"

"I think they're signs of an infection. And that's in addition to the fever you probably have." Peter finished up by taping a large abdominal pad over the wound, and then applied pressure with his hand, to slow the bleeding.

"But I'm taking antibiotics," Neal protested.

Peter just shrugged as he pulled out his cell phone, grateful that he had remembered to put it back in his pocket. "I don't know what to tell you, kid. Maybe you need another kind? Hold on while I call Elizabeth."

"_Hi Peter," _she said on picking up. _"I'm so sorry I'm not home yet. I'm stuck in traffic, and it's barely moving."_

"Well, you may want to change direction. I think I need to take Neal to the ER." Peter winced, waiting for the explosion on the other end of the line.

"_What happened?! What's wrong with him?"_

"It's nothing serious," Peter answered, hoping he was right. "He just fell down the stairs and pulled a few staples. They'll stitch him back up, and he'll be fine!"

"_He. Fell. Down. The STAIRS?! I _told _you to help him, Peter."_

"Well, I broke his fall, like you asked! There was nothing else I could do," he said, knowing this wasn't true. He could've gone upstairs himself, instead of sending Neal when he knew he wasn't feeling well.

"_Okay, I'll meet you at the ER. We'll talk about it later," _she said, sounding dangerous.

When Peter hung up the phone, he noticed Neal was smiling. "Oh, shut up," Peter said, while he dialed the number for a cab to come pick them up.

****************

As they pulled up to the doors of the emergency room, Peter nudged Neal with his shoulder to make sure he was awake. They had been sitting close so that Peter could keep pressure on the wound during the ride, and he couldn't see Neal's face.

"I'm awake," Neal said in response.

"Are you alright to walk?" Peter asked. "There's no way in hell I can push you in a wheelchair with these crutches."

"Yeah, I'll be fine. You don't need to baby me, Peter."

"Getting you a wheelchair isn't babying you. It's what people do at the hospital." Peter paid the driver and then went around to Neal's side to at least help him get out of the car.

Luckily, the ER wasn't very crowded, so they didn't have to wait long to get a room.

"You know, I've had enough of these hospital beds to last me a lifetime," Neal said, as they were waiting for the physician to show up. "And this oxygen up my nose. It's driving me crazy."

"Well, don't mess with it," Peter told him from his chair at the side of the bed. "The nurse said you're not breathing efficiently because of the pain."

"I'm feeling better now, though," he argued.

"Well, still don't mess with it," Peter said, tiredly.

There was a knock at the door, and Peter and Neal both looked up expectantly, hoping for the doctor. Instead, it was Elizabeth. And June. For some reason, Elizabeth didn't look very happy.

"Hey guys," Neal said, smiling. "June, how did you know I was here? Not that I'm not pleased to see you."

"Mozzie called. He said you texted him that you were back in the hospital," she replied.

At this, Elizabeth gave Neal a dark look. Peter expected El to be mad at him, but not at Neal. "Honey, what's wrong? Neal will be fine. They said they'll probably get him started on some new antibiotics, nothing major."

"It's not that," Elizabeth said, softening as she walked up to Neal's bed. "June is staging an intervention. Apparently we're not doing a very good at taking care of Neal."

Peter felt immensely guilty, and Neal looked surprised, but June spoke up before either one could respond. "I just think it would be easier for everybody this way. He won't be going up and down any stairs, and I can be there all day. Aren't you going back to work soon anyway, Peter?"

"Yes, but –"

"Peter, I agree with her," Neal said. "You shouldn't be worrying about me while you're trying to get better. You could've gotten hurt today as well."

"Neal, I'm sorry. I just feel so horrible about all of this," Elizabeth said. She looked close to tears.

"Don't," he told her. "I appreciate everything you've both done for me. But you have to work, and Peter will be going back to the job soon. I would just get in the way."

"Hey, I'm not the only one going back to work," Peter cut in. "Granted, I will be on desk duty for a while with this leg, so once you're feeling better, if you want to work with Jones or Cruz in the field for a little excitement . . ."

Neal laughed. "I've also had enough excitement to last me for a while. Desk duty sounds just fine."

****************

**Thanks for sticking around till the end, my fellow Collars! And thank you to everybody who made this story a favorite and took the time to leave feedback. I'm about to start working on my next fic (another h/c of course), so if any of you have requests for Neal and Peter's next predicament, let me know!**


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